


5 Times Clint Got Taken Apart and the 1 Time He Got Put Back Together Again

by Cristinuke



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Aftercare, Caning, Choking, Codependency, Drug Use, F/M, Forced Submission, Fucking, Knifeplay, M/M, Manipulation, Multi, Verbal Humiliation, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-05 18:35:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1828225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cristinuke/pseuds/Cristinuke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha once asked him, "Why do you do this to yourself? Why do you let us do this to you?"</p><p>Clint had smiled and nuzzled closer into her lap and replied honestly, "Because everybody needs an outlet. Mine is to become someone else's outlet."</p><p>Natasha had thought it over for a minute and then accepted his answer, running her fingers through his hair as they both returned their attention to the movie that they had been watching.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tony

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very dark and twisted story. Even though Clint consents (not explicitly stated), it toes the line so much that it seems invisible. Please read the tags. This is not a healthy relationship whatsoever, nor do I endorse relationships like this. 
> 
> I'll be posting a chapter per day. 
> 
> Not beta'd.

**Tony**

"Hey Tony, I had a couple of ideas for the new quiver that-, Tony?" Clint stopped walking when he saw Tony stalking over to him.

"There you are." Tony growled, and it was only because Clint was surprised that Tony managed to grip him tight around his bicep and drag him over to the workshop table. Before they got there, though, Clint shook his head as his instincts kicked into gear, and twisted his arm out of Tony's grip. Tony seemed to be anticipating that move, however, and Clint didn't understand how he suddenly found himself tripping headfirst onto the table.

"I've been waiting for your fucking ass to get down here." Tony spat out, hands pushing Clint down onto the table; Clint started to really fight back, though, knowing he could always beat Tony in sparring, but something cold and metal wrapped around a flailing wrist, and before he knew it, his other wrist was immobilized as well.

"What the fuck, Tony?" Clint gritted out as the metal around his wrists pulled him over the table further, and then spread his arms out wide, making Clint slightly worried that they might not stop before pulling his arms out of their sockets. They didn't pull them out, stopping just barely before, and creating a strain that had Clint panting through the pain.

"You like it rough, don't you? Little fucking whore you are." Tony snarled as he came up right behind where Clint was bent over at the waist. Clint was still struggling, and when he felt Tony grind his hard, denim-covered cock against his ass, Clint kicked out with his feet, satisfied with Tony's groan of pain.

"Fucking little bitch." Tony hissed, and suddenly Clint found himself being forced to spread his legs wide by metal arms as well. It hurt, and Clint gave a small cry at the way his legs were extended beyond his flexibility capabilities.

"Fuck you, Stark." Clint cried out over the sharp pain along his inner thighs. A hand came down hard on his ass, hitting him and making him huff out a gasp at the impact.

"You're just a spoiled little brat, aren't you? I know what to do with spoiled little shits like you." Tony threatened as he started ripping off Clint's pants, shoving them down as far as they could go with Clint's legs stretched out so far apart. Clint groaned at the rough treatment, and at how his ass was suddenly exposed. Clint wasn't expecting it when Tony started a barrage of slaps along his bare backside, and Clint knew Tony wasn't pulling any punches, each hit making Clint see stars.

"You would…know…fuck!...all about…spoiled shits, wouldn't, fuuu-, wouldn't you?" Clint gasped out with each hit. His ass was burning raw, and Clint finally screamed when Tony got fed up with hitting him and thrust into him all the way in. Clint hadn't even known that Tony had taken himself out of his jeans, but he couldn't think past the violent burn and sudden brutal pace that Tony set, pumping into him hard and making the slapping of his hips against Clint's ass the loudest thing in the room, over his rough panting.

"Shut the fuck up, you fucking whore." Tony growled, voice dripping with malice. Clint couldn't even come up with a retort, because Tony was fucking into him without abandon and it was hurting so much. His hole was stinging with sharp pain, being stretched so cruelly, even if he had been opened before he came down to the workshop.  Clint couldn't even fight against him, so spread out and helpless on the table. Every thrust was pushing him up further against the surface of the table, and Clint could feel bruises forming on his hips where the force of getting rammed into the edge was making Clint whimper.

Tony's hands were pushing down on Clint's back, pinning him in place and keeping Clint exactly where he wanted. He fucked into him hard, using him and whispering nasty things to Clint about what a whore and slut Clint was.

"You were fucking made to be used like this. Fucked up and dirtied. You like that that, don't you? You'd fucking beg for me to shove my dick in you, wouldn't you?" Tony panted, snapping his hips up. Clint tried to shake his head no, moaning his protest, but Tony simply reached a hand out to grasp Clint's hair tightly in a fist and pulled him up.

Clint screamed when the machines didn't move with him, and he was pulled tighter by Tony. "I fucking asked you a question, you worthless piece of shit. Answer me." Tony slowed to a stop, cock still buried deep inside of Clint.

"Fu-fuck you, Stark." Clint repeated, head swimming with incessant pain, and not knowing what else to say. Tony didn't like that answer, though, because he just dragged Clint by the hair further back, making Clint scream again at the harsh pulling.

" _Beg._ " Tony ordered, lips curling up into a twisted smirk. Clint whimpered, and Tony pulled again brutally. Clint could feel his shoulders on the verge of dislocating, and his neck was being pulled back too far for him to even swallow. The combined pain of everything his body was experiencing, from the vicious invasion in his ass, to his spread thighs and bruised hips, to his arched back trying to alleviate the pain in his bent neck and straining arms were making tears leak out of Clint's eyes.

When Tony grew impatient, he pulled on Clint's hair again, and Clint froze in complete fear when he heard a pop. It hadn't been his shoulder, not yet, just some cartilage shifting, but it was enough to spurn Clint on, crying out, "Please! Please, wait!"

Tony's smirk grew wider, "Please what, slut?"

Clint gasped out, "Please put your dick in me and fuck me!" Clint was shaking from the strain of the harsh position he was in, and he couldn’t think, couldn't breathe.

"I don't believe you. Make me believe you." Tony told him, not relaxing his grip at all.

In a blind panic, Clint started begging frantically, "Tony, please, shove your cock in me and fuck me, fuck me hard, and come in my ass, please, just fuck-, ahhh!" Clint's words morphed into a harsh yelp when Tony shoved Clint's head down onto the table, making Clint's head spin and his world tilt dangerously. The next moment, Tony was back to fucking Clint, harder and faster, energy renewed by Clint's pathetic pleading.

"You're just fucking useless. You can't even beg properly." Tony smacked Clint's ass on every other thrust. "Tighten up, bitch. You can't tell me that you're already loose and gaping. Fuck, you really are a slut."

Clint was crying in earnest now, everything escalating way too much for him to process, and with Tony fucking the breath out of him while slapping him erratically, Clint was choking for air.

Mercifully, Tony seemed close, with the way his movements grew jerkier and more inconsistent.  It only took a few more thrusts before Tony groaned throatily and fucked his way through his orgasm, letting his come make a mess of Clint's ass. Finally, his movements slowed, and then Tony was lazily fucking him with his softening cock, pushing his come everywhere.

When he finally slipped out, Clint heard Tony putting himself away, and zipping up his pants. "Thanks, doll. I needed that." Tony chuckled darkly before giving Clint another slap on his ass, making Clint flinch. "Looks like you needed that too, you whore. Look at you, gaping and open. Can't even keep my come in like a good little slut. Fucking worthless." Tony scoffed and Clint heard him walk away.

A ding from the elevator made Clint know that Tony had left him completely.

Clint was still sobbing quietly on the table, still spread out and useless. He could feel Tony's come sliding down the back of his thighs, and his hole was fluttering weakly around nothing. Clint's shoulders were aching fiercely, and Clint could stop shaking.

He was alone, cold, and in so much pain. He didn't know how long it was before the machines finally released him. Clint slumped down to the floor, sliding off the table as soon as he was free, and in too much pain to do anything but let himself curl up in a ball. He stayed like that until his sobbing breaths slowed and he got his body under control. It was hard, but he managed to push himself up right, holding onto the table for support. With fumbling fingers, Clint figured out how to pull up and button his pants again, ignoring the drying come caking over in his ass and on his legs.

Clint pushed himself towards the elevator, where he knew it would take him down to the labs without him having to say a word. With Tony's words still floating in his head and settling into his bones, Clint wrapped his arms around himself as the elevator doors closed and started its decent.


	2. Bruce

**Bruce**

The elevator dinged to signal its arrival, and Clint stumbled out of it. Almost immediately he was being righted by strong hands. Clint let himself be steered towards the big, dentist-looking chair on the other side of the room by Bruce, who was grumbling the whole way.

"What the fuck did Tony do to you this time. He knows he's not supposed to break you. Fuck, I can't test project 14-JS5 today, then." Bruce mused to himself, and gave a little hum as he directed Clint into the chair. It was slow going, with Clint limping slightly, and leaning his weight into Bruce's body. Every time he did that, Bruce simply straightened him up again, and with his sure hands, helped him sit down properly. Clint was grateful that the chair was cushiony, but sitting down made him hiss as his ass gave a twinge of protest.

Bruce ignored him and went about his lab picking up different tools and supplies, and putting others away. Clint watched him move, and then had to close his eyes for a moment. Everything had gone fuzzy all of a sudden, and when Clint opened his eyes again, it was still hazy. Clint brought his hands up to rub at his eyes, but his limbs felt heavy and uncoordinated, and he smacked himself in the face with his hand.

"B-Bruce?" Clint called out, worry in his voice at how his body was slowly going limp in the chair. Clint's breathing was growing slow and deep, and he could feel how his heart was beating calmly and strongly, but not picking up speed, despite the panic that Clint thought he was going into.

Bruce continued to ignore him, and was talking to himself softly.

"Bruuuce, wha's 'appening?" Clint slurred out. Clint tried to train his focus on Bruce, but Bruce was moving too fast for Clint to catch up; his head lolled from side to side in a vain attempt to catch Bruce's attention. It wasn't until Clint started slumping dangerously in the chair that Bruce seemed to notice.

"Oh nice, that's a record time for substance KCO-28. I need to write that down." Bruce continued his rambling as he walked back to Clint in the chair and bent over to reach under the chair, coming back with straps and buckles. Clint could only watch blearily as Bruce moved the straps over Clint's body, and fastened them to the other side. Bruce pulled on the ends and tightened them, securing Clint to the chair. By the time he was done, Clint was completely bound, limbs and torso and head secured tightly to the chair. Bruce pressed a button on some remote thing, and Clint heard a whirring noise as he was being lowered and straightened out on the chair. Clint gave a whimper when none of his limbs listened to him as he tried to struggle out of the straps. Everything was moving so fast and so slow, and Clint didn't understand what was going on. His mouth felt full of cotton. He couldn't remember how to shape his mouth in order to make words come out.

"There we go, that should do it." Bruce kept chattering away to himself as he let go of the button and the chair stopped moving. Bruce hummed to himself as he started sticking electrodes and sticky pads with wires underneath Clint's shirt on his chest, and neck and arms. Clint couldn't see where the wires led to, but he started hearing an even beeping sound, and wondered what that meant. He couldn't process anything anymore, and couldn't put two and two together that the beeping and his heart rate seemed to be going at the same time.

Bruce brought a chair over to sit next to Clint as he grabbed a clipboard and pen. He immediately stuck the pen in his mouth and started to chew on it, lost in thought. Bruce flipped through the pages on the clipboard, and started muttering to himself again around the pen in his mouth, "Okay, we've done excess orgasms….you reacted satisfactory to those and managed to get through all the way to phase three which was…ah yes, six in a row. Not bad. Substance E8 was used on number 3, I remember that….and for each one after I had to up the dose." Bruce flipped a page. "Hallucinatory substances were reacted with very nicely. Those were some really good tests…though 25 milligrams seemed to be too much as that induced unwanted memories. We'll have to try those again sometime…" Another page flipped, "Machine use, anal and penile seemed to work out nicely, but I think we can skip those today." Two pages flipped. "Hmmm, I think we can try out Substances 936-F through H."

Satisfied with his choice, Bruce took the pen out of his mouth and scribbled some notes on the clipboard. Clint closed his eyes to make everything stop swimming but he opened them up again when he felt something pinch him in the inside of his arm. He managed to focus on Bruce who was injecting a syringe-full of a purple liquid into Clint. When had Bruce put down the clipboard and gotten the syringe? Clint couldn't remember, but suddenly he started feeling alert again.

Everything was coming into sharp focus, and Clint could see things clearly again. As his mind snapped out of its haze, Clint looked at Bruce who was watching him intently. Clint realized Bruce was wearing his glasses and had on a look of extreme concentration. Clint opened his mouth to say something, when suddenly Clint's body was set on fire.

At least, that's what it felt like. His veins felt like they were about to explode with the amount of heat that was traveling through them, Clint couldn't believe how he was still breathing so calmly when his body felt like it was being torn apart. Clint did the only thing he could think of, and that was to scream.

He was dying, he knew it. In the span of just a few seconds, the fire had raged through his whole body and was burning him to embers. Clint tried to shake, tried to get away from the flames licking at him from the inside out, but he couldn't move an inch. It hurt worse than Clint had ever felt pain to be, and Clint screamed and screamed, incoherently begging for it to end, for his life to end, for his suffering to just stop, please stop. It was too much, and Clint couldn't think past the burning, past the pain, past the agony. His throat was ripping apart with his screams, and he was finally breathing hard and fast enough to match with his suffering. He couldn't hear the beeping anymore, didn't know that his heart was pounding out of his chest because his whole body felt like he was being flayed alive. Clint felt how each muscle cramped and tightened as if he could somehow prevent the pain from touching him, but it did; it touched him everywhere all at once and unabashedly, ripping apart every atom of his existence.

Clint lost any and all awareness of the world around him, so he completely missed Bruce injecting him with another substance, this time pink.

Almost as if a flipped had been switched, the pain disappeared, and Clint was left gasping and reeling. The pain had gone, and in its wake, like a tide coming in, a wave of pure, unadulterated bliss crashed through his body, leaving him gasping for a wholly other reason.

His mind was wiped blank, but it wasn't the same feeling of forced shutdown of when his body couldn't handle stress and distress anymore; this time is was because he was feeling calmer and happier than he'd ever felt. His body was cooling and melting into a puddle, and he felt lighter than air. Clint had a vague thought of endorphins being released, but the thought morphed into an image of dolphins and then Clint was wondering how he made that connection, but soon he didn't care, just floating in space. He could feel his muscles loosen into nothing, feeling like he didn't even have a body anymore, that he wasn't tied down to the earth anymore.

Clint wanted to see and open his eyes, but the effort was just so much more than he'd thought it'd be, so he quickly gave up, settling back down to just enjoy his ecstasy of nothingness. He had no idea how long he was in his own little paradise, but he was vaguely aware of a hand touching his arm. Soon after, a sharp little prick gave him pause, and Clint wondered why there would be a small ounce of pain in his otherwise perfect world. His thoughts and worries ran away when the prick of pain disappeared along with the warm hand.

Clint just rode on the clouds of pure delight until his thoughts started growing more and more concrete. Clint didn't want to shake off the blissful feelings, but they seemed to be slipping away quickly. In its wake, came a weird sense of urgency. Clint became more and more alert, and finally was able to open his eyes. When he did, he immediately saw Bruce, who still had the look of extreme concentration, but he was alternating between watching Clint, and writing down things in his notebook.

The more Clint looked at Bruce, the more alert and tingly Clint felt. It didn't feel bad at all, which felt like a foggy relief. It felt really good, but not in the same good that he had just been feeling. The tingling was enveloping his body, and he felt warm and just plain good. Clint realized that his cock was hard, but he didn't know when that had happened. As he thought more about it, the sense of urgency started gripping a tighter hold on him, and his cock jerked in arousal.

That was what Clint was feeling, he figured out. He was feeling horny. Very, very horny.

Clint realized that his muscles were back under his control at the same time that he started straining against the straps, trying to feel _more_. Everything that touched him, made his skin warm and tingle pleasantly, and Clint wanted more of that. His cock was straining against his pants, and his hole twitched in desperation. It didn't matter that he had just been fucked thoroughly, and currently had globs of come drying along his ass and legs; his body wanted more.

An escaped whimper startled Clint, but once it was out, it was all he could do, moaning and groaning and writhing on the chair. He could feel sweat gathering along his body, his forehead feeling too warm, but it just seemed to help him slide more desperately against his leather bindings.

He was panting hard with exertion in no time, trying valiantly to _do something_ to relieve the pressure growing his groin, but it was useless. That was when he turned back to Bruce and started begging quickly.

"Bruce, Bruce, please…please let me go, I need….I need to come, please, please?" Clint couldn't shut down the hysterical disappointment he felt when Bruce just watched him interestedly while ignoring everything that Clint said.

"Please! Bruce, please-, oh god, please help me. A hand? Something? Let one of my hands go, please, Bruce!" Clint could feel his hysterics getting the better of him as his desperation level increased monumentally. Clint felt tears springing out of the corners of his eyes as he continued to try and undulate his hips against the straps, but it was no use. Clint's cock was feeling so heavy and sore, and Clint thought he was going to come untouched.

But that was the big problem, wasn't? Clint knew he needed something. Bruce knew it too. They all knew that it was impossible for Clint to come without something, just a hand or something to rut against. Clint sobbed out against the unfairness of it all.

He started hurting again. He'd gone past all the good stages of arousal and general horniness, and was balls deep into mindless want. Clint gave a hysterical laugh-turned-sob at his choice of metaphor.

He couldn't do anything, but he needed to come so bad. He felt like he was just on the edge, and was desperate for that final push, just _something_ to help him over that goddamn hill, but nothing came. Neither did Clint.

Clint was going crazy with his own bad puns and lack of orgasm.

It felt like it was just growing and growing, and Clint cried out and screamed, not knowing what else he could do.

Bruce just scribbled more notes.

Clint was past begging, past words. He lost track of time.

He didn't know how long it'd been before his body finally, _finally_ started to relax again, and crawl back under Clint's control. One by one, Clint's muscles stopped clenching, and his body felt like the heat was been seeped away, leaving him cold and shivering. His body blessedly went limp, as did his cock, much to Clint's surprise. Clint was exhausted and couldn't care less anymore, just wanting to sleep, but unable to in his uncomfortable position, and his increasing chills.

Bruce kept writing on his clipboard, and ignored everything else until Clint's teeth started chattering loudly. Apparently that was too loud for Bruce, because the next time he looked at Clint, he was staring at him with an annoyed look on his face.

Sighing loudly, as if he were indulging a child, Bruce stood up and started untying the belts that held Clint down.

"Can't you see I'm working? Be quieter next time instead of being a distracting little shit." Bruce scolded him and Clint felt guilty, but didn't know why.

"I'm sorry." Clint offered, teeth still rattling away, and Clint briefly worried about biting his tongue.

Bruce just looked exasperated and when he finished getting all the straps undone, he snapped, "Get fuck out of my lab." He didn't even look twice before he left Clint alone and took his clipboard to walk over to a computer and start typing in data or something. Clint didn't know.

Clint shivered harder, and felt empty. All of his muscles protested as he forced himself to sit up on the chair and swing his legs over. It took him a moment to clear his head from the blood rush, and another to be able to fully trust himself to hold his own weight. Clint stood up, hands gripping the chair in fear, and when he let go, he almost crashed into the desk that Bruce had been working at earlier.

At the sound of things clattering, Bruce turned around to reprimand him again, "For fuck's sake, leave!"

Clint felt small, but he did what was told of him, and he made his way back to the elevator. Once he was inside, he had to hold onto the railings to steady himself. When the elevator started moving upwards, the motion made Clint's knees buckle slightly, but he managed to keep his balance, precarious though it was.

The elevator stopped at his next destination without Clint ever pressing a button.


	3. Natasha

**Natasha**

The doors had barely opened before he heard her say, "On the table. You know what to do."

He did.

Clint stripped and left his clothes in a heap in front of the elevator. It took him a bit to shed the clothes as his muscles ached with every movement. Clint walked over to the empty table in the middle of the dark room. It hurt to lift himself up on the table, but he managed it anyway, facing downwards as he stretched his body out along the table's length. When he was in the proper position, with the legs slightly spread and his hands reaching towards the corners, Natasha stepped out of the shadows and began her task of cuffing his wrists and ankles to the table. The cuffs didn't have much slack, so once he was tied, Clint wasn't going to be able to move much.

As she worked, she went over the rules, like she did every time, "Each sound you make will be a tally for the end, Clint. Five more tallies if I see a tear. Unless you want a whole mess of tallies, it's in your best interest to keep your fucking mouth shut. The less you move, the better for you too." That was all the warning Clint got: shut up and don't move. They both knew that they were impossible things to ask of Clint.

Natasha stepped back and walked out of Clint's line of sight. Clint heard some rustling and knew she was getting the materials that she was going to use for the night.

"I bought some new things. You'll appreciate them." Clint sincerely doubted it.

He was proven right when, without any warning, a whip came down and sliced across his back. Clint screamed at the surprise pain and squeezed his eyes shut. Even though it had felt like it, he knew his back hadn't actually cut open.

"That's one tally, Clint. I'm disappointed. I thought you'd hold out longer than this." Natasha's voice _did_ sound disappointed. Clint clicked his mouth shut, determined to be quiet and to ignore the growing sense of shame that was crawling along his skin.

Clint was ready for the second hit, and managed not to cry out, even though it felt like agony striping his shoulder. He could feel precisely where the whip's mark started, wrapped around his shoulder, and where it ended just below his opposite shoulder blade.

Natasha wasn't predictable with her swings, which was absolutely infuriating to Clint. She would strike him and pause, listening for any sound trying to escape from his mouth, and then drag the end of the whip along the reddened marks that were rising up along his skin. Clint hated it, hated the initial shock of pure anguish that he had to smother his reaction to, and hated having to then force himself to only tremble when the same spot was worried by the rough material of the whip.  

It was exhausting. Clint had to keep himself in check, not show any outward signs of discomfort other than the inevitable shaking his body slipped into. His back felt like it had flames dancing along every inch, and Clint knew he wasn't going to be able to hold out for too much longer.

He broke when Natasha hit the same place three times in a row, one after the other with no break or hesitation in between. Clint screamed loud enough that he knew he was going to regret his throat later, but at the present moment he couldn't care less, too preoccupied with the torture of his back feeling like the flesh was being ripped from his sinew.

"Two." Natasha spoke softly. "I expected better from you. You deserve punishment for that." After that, Clint cried out with every single hit Natasha bestowed on him. He lost track of how many she did, but by the time he was conscious of her stopping, Clint had screamed himself hoarse, and Clint was sobbing hysterically, his back a field of bright red stripes that crisscrossed and reached every part of him.

"You're into your twenties, Clint, and five extra for crying." Natasha reported calmly. It was a jarring difference between her tone and the gasping wheezes that Clint was desperately trying to control.

"I-I-I'm s-sorryyy," Clint rasped out, shivering in his bonds. A fresh strike hit him before he could take another breath, and he was left gaping for a moment before he could remember how to breathe.

"Did I give you permission to talk? Are you deliberately trying to let everyone down today? Is that your game?" Natasha spoke lowly, her tone scolding.

"N-no!" Clint cried out breathlessly. Another strike stole his breath again.

"What did I just say about talking, Clint. I don't think you're worth my time if you're just going to be a waste like this." Natasha said coldly.   

Clint bit his tongue hard to keep himself from speaking or making any other sound.

Natasha stepped around in front of Clint's head. "Better. But you still acted like a naughty child who doesn't know how to be quiet." With that, Natasha walked away to put the whip down and pick up her next instrument.

She gave him a couple moments to regain some control over himself before she started spanking his bare ass with a wooden paddle. The paddle had dulled spikes on it, and each hit made a meaty sound, leaving harsh imprints of the patterned spikes.

It barely took four swings before Clint was crying out again.

Natasha tutted in between strokes, and when Clint screamed particularly loud on one hit, Natasha dropped her arm to her side; with her free hand, she reached underneath Clint and pinched the head of his cock tightly, making Clint cry out again and vainly try to struggle away.

"It seems like you're going to need a little bit more of a reminder, don't you? Can't have you forgetting all the lessons we've done together." She let go brutally, saying, "And those are a few more tallies. Don't think I wasn't counting."

Clint knew she was counting. She always counted, because she couldn't trust him to do it.

Clint startled when he felt his ankle cuffs being released. He started to panic inside his ocean of pain, because he'd never been released before the tallies before. This wasn’t normal. He had forced Natasha to do something out of the norm, because Clint had been so bad today.

Natasha seemed to ignore his internal struggles, as well as his external ones as she lifted his feet and bent them at the knee. "Keep them here or it'll be worse for you." Natasha warned, and Clint tried to ignore his burning back by focusing on keeping his feet up where Natasha told him.

"Don't move." The fact that she was warning him twice made Clint freak out even more. Clint barely suppressed his flinch when he felt something thin being tied around his big toe. It was small and wiry, so he assumed it was a string of some sort. His other toe got the same treatment, and Clint grew anxious at what could possibly by coming next.

Natasha grabbed his soft cock, and straightened him out between his legs. A small tug on his toes verified to Clint that they had indeed been strung up, but he didn't fight against the pull, moving with the pressure until it lessened.

Clint shrieked in pure agony when Natasha clipped metal clamps to the head of his cock.

Clint's first reaction was to move his legs down, but when that only increased the pain in his poor cock, Clint realized with a shock that the clamps were connected to the strings that were tied around his toes. Mind hazy with red, Clint forced himself to keep his feet elevated so that he wouldn't pull on his cock.

His plan seemed to work well for him.

Right up until Natasha took out the cane.

It was hard, each _whoosh_ of the cane snapping down in his back, making Clint howl through his shredded throat, but he managed to keep his feet up. When the cane started raining down blows on his ass, Clint had finally been reduced to strained, broken whimpers.

When Natasha started caning the soles of his feet…

_That_ was when Clint fucked up and tried to get away from that particular torture. It resulted in a very quick snap of the clamps being pulled off from his cock and Clint's mouth frozen open in a silent scream with tears running down his face.

"Finally." Natasha sounded smug. "About time you learned how to be fucking quiet. I thought you'd never learn."

Clint didn't hear her put away the cane, and he didn't register his ankles being tugged down and cuffed again. The combined pain from his back, ass, cock and feet were making him very dizzy and Clint was seeing spots, even when he closed his eyes.

"Time for tallies, Clint." Natasha spoke quietly after a few blessedly quiet moments. Clint whimpered and trembled uncontrollably.

"Fifty-three."

Clint moaned hoarsely and shook his head against the table.

Natasha didn't waste any more time. She grabbed her razor and lifted herself onto the table, straddling Clint's ass, and making him hiss at the contact on his sore bottom.

Natasha bent over and started working. "One, two, three…," She cut a clear slice of a line along the top of Clint's back, right on the shoulder, for each number. Every fifth tally, she skillfully slashed on the diagonal, making sure to hit each of the other four tallies. She bundled the groups of five across his shoulders, with some of the cuts sliding into welts left behind from the whip and cane.

Clint couldn't make any more noises,- his throat was too shredded, and the fight and energy sapped away completely. He could only shiver against the pain, but Natasha was quick about her work, professionally cutting into his skin. She never cut deeply, always making sure that the small slices were shallow, but present. Thin ribbons of blood drew up along the lines, and by the time she tacked on the fifty-third line, the whole top row of his back was bright red.

Natasha swung herself off of Clint's back, and padded over to where she had her supplies. Clint struggled to open his eyes, and when he did, he shut them again, fear lacing through his body when he saw her approach him with a bottle.

"I think we should disinfect those nasty cuts, wouldn't you agree? Wouldn't want them to get infected or scar." She spoke way too brightly, and Clint squeezed his eyes harder, as if it would ward off the incoming pain.

At least it wasn't lemon or ginger juice this time. Clint counted his small blessings as she poured the alcohol over his back and Clint found a reserve of strength to scream again. The time where she had spread capsaicin oil over his back had been a new circle of hell that had put Clint out of commission for the rest of the week. Clint had believed at the time that she had managed to finally kill him that night.

Natasha rubbed the alcohol in deeply, giving Clint the sense of a mock massage that brought more pain rather than relief. She patted him twice, with a "There you go," and after letting him out of the cuffs, she went through a door, and didn't come back out.

It took him about an hour before Clint found the will to move. Hissing at the shift of his muscles and skin as he moved, Clint somehow made his way to his bundle of clothes that were still in a heap on the floor in front of the elevator. Using the most delicate care he could manage, Clint carefully tugged on his pants and crawled into his shirt. The fabric was grating on his ruined back, but Clint pushed through it.

Getting dressed, however, had been the extent of his abilities while standing up. With a pained sigh, Clint slipped onto his knees and rested his head against the cold hardwood floor. He let several more minutes go by while he thought of nothing but simply breathing in air into his lungs, and letting it out.

When he felt he could do more than that again, Clint didn't bother standing up again, merely crawling the couple of feet to the elevator that opened for him. Once inside, Clint looked up at the bar that wrapped around the inside of the elevator. He reached up to it and grasped it tightly with one hand, and pulled his other hand up to do the same. Using a monumental effort he didn't know he had, Clint pulled himself up, leaning heavily against the railing and the back of the elevator.

That was when the elevator started moving to Clint's next destination.


	4. Steve

**Steve**

The elevator doors opened, and Clint didn't have a chance to do anything before a hand reached in and, gripping him by his throat, wrenching him out.

Clint tried to curl in on himself, but Steve didn't let him, ripping his shirt off and making Clint hiss at the rough treatment and the way the clothes irritated his back. His shirt in tatters, Steve ripped off his pants as well-, those hurting more-, and let them fall down to join the litter of what was once actual clothing.

Steve never said a word and he never looked at Clint in the eye. That was the most terrifying part.

He never gave Clint a chance to speak either, what with his throat being slowly squeezed so that Clint was immediately gasping for breath, choking against the steel grip.

Steve slammed him backwards against the wall, pushing him up onto his tip toes. With brutal strength, Steve yanked Clint's legs apart from each other, and hoisted him up, balancing him in one hand while pushing him into the wall. Clint could already feel bruises deepening in his hips, and his back was screaming as he was pressed mercilessly on his injuries. Steve didn't care, only squeezing tighter and positioning himself before pushing in hard and fast into Clint.

Had Clint had the ability, he would have screamed with the pain of being fucked so harshly after all the abuse he'd already endured. As it were, his throat was already wrecked, and on top of it all, he was starting to grow dizzy with the cutoff of oxygen to his brain.

Clint started to see black spots swim across his vision and with each thrust of Steve's, the grip on his throat tightened each time he was pushed upwards on the wall. Clint could feel unconsciousness teasing him around the edges, and like always, had the fleeting thought that this would be the time that Clint loses and doesn't come back.

But like every time, just when Clint was about to fade out of reality, Steve's grip disappeared, and Clint was left wheezing with the upmost difficulty as he tried to make oxygen reach his brain again. He was left panting frantically when he finally came back to the situation at hand of being relentlessly impaled on Steve's enormous cock.

As soon as a noise of discomfort passed through Clint's lips, however, the hand was back, though it only tightened enough to warn Clint to keep quiet. Mercifully, Steve never lasted long, and with a few more brutal thrusts, he was coming, pumping Clint's battered body full of come.

What Steve lacked for in endurance, however, he always made up for in stamina, and if that thought didn't make sense, well Clint didn't fucking care, because he could still feel Steve's hard cock stretching him open and he knew that this was far from over.

Steve pulled himself out and threw Clint on the floor carelessly. Clint landed on his shoulder and couldn't help the whimper at the angle in which he had fallen. He was tired and in so much pain, but it didn't matter because Steve reached out for him again, pulling him up short and forcing Clint onto his knees. Clint would have wobbled at his shit balance had it not been for Steve's fierce grip making him stay in place.

Clint could feel the fresh come sliding out of his ass to join the remnants of Tony's old come, and Clint felt decadently disgusting. He was so preoccupied with himself that he was snapped back to what was in front of him when Steve dug his fingers into Clint's cheeks, compelling Clint to open his mouth. As soon as he did, Steve pushed in his come-covered cock into Clint's mouth and kept going until he hit the back of his torn throat, making Clint gag at the invasion. Steve wasn't long to start up a vicious rhythm, sliding in and out of Clint's mouth, where on every slide in, he purposely jammed himself deep down Clint's throat.

Clint could hardly breathe again, gasping desperately for air every time Steve slid out. The one time Clint tried to back his head off, Steve had just wrapped his hand around the bottom of Clint's skull and kept him in place as he fucked him.

Clint grew panicky when Steve decided to slow himself down, letting his cock rest inside Clint's throat for longer periods of times, and completely cutting of Clint's air supply. The black spots started to come back, and even after inhaling some precious air, they remained to decorate Clint's field of vision.

So Clint closed his eyes against the unwanted spots; he could feel how desperately his body tried to cry against the unfairness of it all. Once Clint felt his nose clog up, his desperation grew more frantically, his mouth opening wider to try and sneak some air in.

It was depressing how Steve kept up his lazy pace, and Clint wondered idly why Steve wasn't disgusted by the fact that snot was literally dripping out of Clint's nose to land on Steve's cock and groin.

Clint didn't know why he was thinking at all, what with his main concern having to be getting enough air. But he couldn't help thinking about the weird fact that Steve always had an asphyxiation kink. Clint thought about how maybe his fixation with air constriction came from Steve's earlier days pre-serum when he was an asthmatic.

Clint was thinking about coming up with a way to ask, when his throat was filled to the brim with come.

Steve backed away and left Clint spluttering and coughing, gasping desperately for air as he fell down to the floor, now that he was no longer being supported. Once he was rasping in air more regularly, curled up in a ball, Steve grabbed a hold of one of Clint's ankles and dragged him the short distance to the elevator.

He was dumped unceremoniously in the middle of the platform, where Clint curled up in himself again in a weak display of defense. With a knock to the elevator door, Steve left Clint to his choking misery, and the elevator doors closed.

Clint felt a lurch of pure fear once the elevator started moving.

"Pl-please, wait," Clint whispered, ignoring the scratching feeling of trying to speak. "J-Jarv," Clint coughed and wheezed, "Jarvis…please."

There was no reply, but Clint hadn't been expecting one. Instead, Clint sniffled and tried to focus on breathing, taking deep, shuddering breaths.

The elevator came to a stop, and Clint froze. When the doors didn't open immediately, Clint started breathing again, a rush of pure gratitude crashing into him once he realized he was being given a little bit of time.

His little reprieve didn't last very long, however.

The doors opened and Clint steeled himself for what was coming next.


	5. Thor

**Thor**

Nothing happened when the doors opened.

No one spoke, no one grabbed him, nothing. But that meant nothing, and Clint knew it.

Clint took in another shuddering breath and willed himself to his hands and knees, absolutely surprised that he could do it. He crawled slowly out of the elevator and into the room, and stopped only when he was in the middle. The soft carpet felt good against his naked body, but Clint resisted the urge to lie down, knowing he was already dirtying everything, a trail of drying come and blood following him in.

He was left there, breathing raggedly for a long time. Still, Clint never dared to let himself rest or relax, making sure to keep his head low and his back arched as much as his muscles could allow, keeping his ass presented to the empty room.

"I was wondering when the Hawk would come to nest." Thor's voice startled Clint badly. He hadn't heard him come into the room. Thor tutted at Clint's reaction.

"Very rude, little bird." A foot kicked Clint over, making him hiss in pain as the kick landed on an already deep bruise. Despite that, Clint made himself crawl onto his hands and knees again and get back into position.

"You're slow today." Thor remarked, sounding put off. "You've been worked over too much. Pity for you." Another kick threw Clint off balanced and had him sprawling onto the other side of the room.

"Did I give you permission to move?" Thor mocked. Clint shook his head as he pushed himself off the floor and into position; Clint lamented the fact that the carpet was no longer clean and tidy.

"It's as if you've forgotten everything you've ever learned, little bird." Thor didn't kick him this time, but he did grip Clint by the hair and ripped it back, making Clint cry out softly and bend his body back. The position exposed his throat, and Thor was quick about attaching a collar, complete with a leash.

"I should clip your wings, little bird. I'd never let you forget any of your training. You could be so good for me." Thor mused as he yanked on the leash and walked to the other side of the room where there was a couch. Clint scrambled to his hands and knees in order to follow, but Thor was right, he was too slow today, and was dragged, instead, making Clint choke around the collar.

Thor sat down on the sofa, and spread his legs. The way he was situated made Clint think of a king sitting in his throne.

Thor pulled the leash until Clint was a heap of limbs between Thor's legs. "Up." Thor ordered.

Clint's hands shook as he forced himself to kneel. Once he did, Thor gripped him by the hair again and pulled him in close, smothering his face into Thor's crotch.

"Pleasure me." Thor demanded. He let go of Clint's head and instead fiddled around with the end of the leash as Clint got to work, fingers trembling as he undid Thor's belt and pants. Clint was grateful that Thor was wearing jeans this time and not his armor; sometimes he liked to make Clint work for it.

Clint was careful in how he pulled out Thor's hardened cock, and he wasted no time before placing his lips on him, giving him a reverent kiss, because that's what Thor liked.

Thor wanted to be worshipped, so that was what Clint did.

Clint was so grateful that he was given some small semblance of control in this situation, letting him breathe easily and as often as he wanted as he made his decisions to lick and suck along Thor's manhood. He took some twisted pride in the way that Thor moaned his approval, but once he started getting too cocky, Thor pulled him back and slapped him across the face.

"You are nothing, little bird. Nothing but a toy for me to fuck. Never forget your place." With that, he pushed Clint's head back down and forced Clint to swallow him whole, something that was painful and difficult to do, as Thor was bigger than what his throat allowed.

"It seems like you are rubbish at that." Thor complained. "Show me another hole."

Clint shuddered and gagged around Thor's length in his throat until Thor pulled him off. Thor rose an eyebrow as if to say _get on with it_ , and Clint lifted himself to his feet. Clint kept his head bowed as he straddled Thor, and positioned himself over him. Very delicately, Clint gripped Thor underneath himself and directed him to his raw hole, ignoring the burn and pain as he lowered himself down.

Clint felt tears well up at the corners of his eyes as he slid himself down the entirety of Thor's length. When his ass touched Thor's thighs, he let out a gasping breath and began to lift himself up again, going tortuously slow for Thor's enjoyment.

"You enjoy this, don't you, little bird? You enjoy whoring yourself out and relish in the pain and the humiliation at the hands of your comrades." Clint closed his eyes and felt the tears slip down his face. He wanted to say no, to defend himself, but he wasn't allowed to speak in Thor's presence. 

A hand slapped his face harshly, making Clint's head snap to the side and lose his concentration. Still he kept his eyes lowered.

"You won't answer me? You won't tell me how much you love being debased and used. Toyed with until you break?" The taunts cut Clint deeply, because he wanted to say something, anything, but refused to take the risk that Thor would impose on him if he spoke out of turn.

"What a disgrace you are to your species." Thor continued. After another moment, he barked out, "Well? What are you waiting for?"

Clint immediately realized that he had paused his motions, so he quickly resumed his painful slide up and down on top of Thor. The come in his ass proved to be vaguely helpful as it eased the way for Clint to move, but it did little to relieve the fact that Thor was simply too big. Still, he kept going.

He kept going until Thor placed his big hands on Clint's chest and harshly shoved him off. Clint landed solidly on the floor and moaned at the soreness in his body.

"You are useless. You don't know how to pleasure anything but yourself. You disgust me." Thor kicked at Clint again, and took hold of himself, pumping his cock roughly through his fist.

It was too much for Clint, who started sobbing again. Too much pain, too many insults, too much of everything. He knew he was dirt, lower than the lowest, and the fact that he couldn't even bring Thor off, only served to prove it.

Clint's eyes flickered up to Thor's face, and saw he had a look of bored disdain. The moment he looked up, however, Thor caught him and suddenly Clint found himself pinned awkwardly to the floor by Thor's full weight. He could barely breathe in enough to cry.

"You can't follow orders, you can't bring pleasure to others, you can't be quiet." Thor panted out as he kept fisting himself with one hand while the other grinded Clint's head into the ground.

"Is there anything you _can_ do?" Thor spat out as he came, shooting all over Clint's chest and face. With a groan, Thor smeared his come all over him, hand almost smothering Clint as he pushed it into his hair and mouth, making him lick his hands clean.

Clint cried as he sucked on his fingers, accepting everything Thor gave him.

Thor got bored of Clint after a few more moments. With a sigh, he pushed himself up to stand and looked down on the mess that was Clint.

"You're pathetic." He noted. Clint couldn't disagree.

Clint tried to curl up on himself again, but Thor was having none of that, instead bending over to heave him over his shoulder. The world swayed dangerously for Clint, and he was distantly confused as to why Thor was still touching him. Thor shouldn't be getting his hands anymore dirty than they were.

Thor set him down in the elevator again, and Clint had escalated from sobbing to dry heaving, scared to be back in the elevator. This time, Thor didn't stop him from curling into a ball again, but he did slip off the collar and leash, sliding it out from under him.

Clint didn't even notice Thor leaving or the doors closing silently behind him.


	6. +1 Coulson

**+1 Coulson**

The doors opened while Clint was still convulsing on the floor.

He thought he heard someone thanking Jarvis, but he couldn't pay attention.

He did pay attention when he felt soft hands try to coax him out of his tight ball. Clint couldn't help but flinch away, but as soon as he heard the voice say, "Talk to me," Clint went limp.

He was done. He couldn't do this anymore. He couldn't handle anything else. He couldn't,- he couldn't-

The voice was hushing him softly, and murmuring nice sounding things, so Clint figured he must have said some of that out loud.

"You're okay, you're okay, Clint. We're going to get you cleaned up, I promise." Clint could hear him speaking, and he wanted to believe that voice so badly, _so badly_ , but he was worthless. He couldn't be okay. He was never going to be clean.

That didn't stop Phil from tirelessly coaxing Clint to help him up. "C'mon, there you go. You're doing so well, I'm so proud of you." Phil was murmuring as he supported the bulk of Clint's weight as they slowly stood up. Clint didn't understand why Phil was lying to him.

He kept lying to him as he directed Clint into the room. Clint thought he was just going to be dropped to the floor, but Phil kept walking, taking him to the bathroom. 

"Here we go, you're okay. Just lie down here." Phil helped Clint into a really big bathtub, and Clint didn't understand why there were fluffy, soft towels inside of the tub. He decidedly stopped caring, and burrowed his face into them, savoring their delicate touch.

Phil stopped touching him and was walking around in the bathroom, but he kept talking to let Clint know where he was.

"I'm proud of you Clint. You're so good, and you're so strong." Phil kept telling him over and over. Clint didn't believe a word he was saying, but he didn't have the energy to argue.

Phil came back and let himself into the tub. He was wearing a thin shirt and boxer briefs, and Clint didn't know why he wasn't naked and fucking him already. Phil very carefully maneuvered Clint so that he was leaning his back against Phil's chest, and Clint thought that he was going to get blood on Phil's white shirt. Phil didn't care, and helped support his head as he brought a water bottle up to Clint's mouth.

Phil was cautious in helping Clint drink, tipping the bottle enough so that Clint wouldn't choke himself. It took a couple of tries before Clint finally could accept the cool liquid. It felt insanely good against his sore throat, and Phil had to hold Clint back a little once Clint tried to chug the liquid down. It took a few more greedy gulps before Clint realized he wasn't drinking water.

"It's okay, Clint, just drink. It'll help make you feel better, and it'll heal everything much quicker." Phil told him patiently. Clint resumed drinking it, enjoying the slightly sweet taste it left. Sure enough, his throat was feeling much better, the scratchiness and hoarse feeling muting tremendously.

Phil let him drink almost the whole bottle before he took it away. Clint licked his lips and realized he _was_ feeling much better.

"Wha-what was that?" Clint whispered. He was pleasantly surprised by how much it didn't hurt to say something.

"Formula that Bruce and Tony came up with, remember? It helps against dehydration, pain, and bruising." Phil told him. "Jarvis, could you start the bath up?"

Jarvis didn't reply, but the faucet on the other side of the tub started running. The bathtub started filling up quickly and Clint loved how the water felt against his tender body. He also liked how Phil felt against his back, solid and strong, with his arms circling Clint and keeping him anchored.

They stayed like that, sitting and watching the water rise until it started threatening to spill over. "Thank you, that's enough." Phil said, and the water stopped.

The water felt great. It wasn't too hot, but it didn't feel cold either, with the temperature just right to not irritate his skin.

"I'm going to clean you up, now, okay?" Phil intoned, and Clint was too numb with relief to do anything but nod.

Phil was so careful, and so considerate of Clint as he started washing his body. Each new area he started working on burned at first, but faded into a tingly pleasantness that didn't feel bad. Clint sensed Phil's fingers as he traced lightly along the tally marks and knew he was counting them; Clint felt a new flush of shame at the thought that there were so many.

Phil was extra gentle when he slipped his fingers down to Clint's ass and washed away the disgusting mess that was stuck there. Cleaning him out was done in such a polite way that Clint was left reeling at the stark difference between his various treatments during the night.Whenever Clint hissed out in pain at a new spot, Phil always apologized softly and treated him even more kindly.

Clint couldn't stand the soft treatment, and started crying again. His body shook minutely as Phil worked him over with slow, gentle strokes.

"Shhh, it's okay. We're just going to get you nice and clean, and then we'll dry you off and put you in bed for sleep. Sound good?" Phil always spoke so quietly, as if he didn't want to spook Clint, but it just made him cry harder.

Clint couldn't even feel the sharp sting when Phil started rubbing ointments along his cuts and bruises. There must have been something in the water that was helping him heal and relax, numbing him from pain. He figured there was probably something in it like what there was in the water bottle, but he didn't ask.

Finally, Phil put the ointments away and rubbed Clint's arms up in down, saying warmly, "Let's get you dried off, shall we? You're doing so well, Clint." He offered Clint a new water bottle, and helped him drink that one too, still giving him encouragements and praises.

Clint didn't get through half the bottle before he finally snapped.

"Fuck me!" He cried out, and he didn't even register that his throat no longer hurt. "Please, just fuck me, and hurt me and use me, and-," Phil wrapped his arms around Clint's shaking frame and pulled him in tight, cutting off his hysterical begging.

"Shh, it's okay, Clint, relax. You're okay." Phil promised him. Clint started gasping for breath again and curled his hands over Phil's forearms across his chest, needing something to hold onto.

"Please, oh god, please, please, fuck, please," Clint shivered in Phil's arms, the water no longer keeping him warm.

"Clint, it's okay, calm down, you're safe, you're done. You don't have to do anything more tonight, it's okay." Phil soothed him, holding him not too tight, but enough to keep him in place.

"Please, fuck me, please, please, pl-please," Clint kept begging, growing less and less energetic until he was only whispering his mantra, sounding defeated.

"I'll love you, Clint. That I can do." Phil promised him and kissed him on the shoulder. Clint closed his eyes and went limp again.

He allowed Phil to slowly help him stand up, being very careful of the fact that Clint was unbalanced and could slip. Phil helped him crawl over the tub and then wrapped him in more fluffy towels, drying him while providing the warmth that Clint needed. Clint felt bad that he wasn't doing anything to help, but he could barely move more than where Phil guided him to, and Phil didn't complain. If anything, he looked content to be looking after Clint.

With Clint all bundled up, Phil shed his own wet clothes tossing them towards the sink. He made Clint drink more from another water bottle, and gently herded Clint out of the bathroom, into the bedroom. Clint noticed that the covers were turned down on the bed, and he tensed.

Phil felt him stiffen and told him, "Relax, I just want you to sleep."

Apparently that wasn't what Clint wanted to hear; his earlier desperation was starting to rear again, and he felt the beginnings of more pleas forming on his tongue, but before he could utter a single one, Phil turned him to the bed and gently pushed him down it. Exhausted, Clint let himself be surrounded by the bed's warmth and comfort.

Unfortunately, Clint was still too wired to relax and rest. Phil seemed to sense that, and he laid down next to Clint after tugging away Clint's wet towels and throwing them over a chair in the corner.

Clint shuddered at the way Phil trailed his hand up and down Clint's arm, and the way he traced over each bruise, carefully touching them as if he was worried about causing Clint anymore pain. When Phil kissed Clint's shoulder, just a light, chaste thing, Clint closed his eyes and pleaded with Phil.

"Please." Clint's voice was barely a whisper. He couldn't stand the kind touches and the careful handling anymore.

Phil kissed him again, and Clint could feel him nod against his shoulder. Clint thought that he'd feel relief, but he just felt empty inside.

Phil propped himself up on his elbow, and he continued his soft exploration of Clint's body, as if he was cataloging each bruise and cut and hurt. Clint closed his eyes when he saw Phil's expression, not wanting to see the way Phil's kind face would surely turn into a parody of itself.

Phil wasn't having any of that though, because he caressed Clint's face, thumb rubbing absentmindedly across his cheek, saying, "Look at me, Clint."

Clint shook his head, eyes resolutely closed, but Phil was persistent, quietly praising Clint and rubbing his thumb encouragingly. When Clint finally relented and blinked his eyes up at Phil's still-kind face, Phil breathed out, "There we go. So good, Clint. I'm going to make you feel so good."

Phil kissed his way down Clint's throat, and licked at his skin, making goosebumps rise up over Clint's body. Phil hummed happily when he reached Clint's cock, and after a couple of licks, found Clint joining in on the festivities, cock twitching with interest.

"Good, so good, Clint. You're so good for me." Phil smiled genuinely and nudged Clint's legs open. Clint's reaction was automatic, letting his legs fall open, but he gasped out in surprise when Phil suddenly ducked down and licked around Clint's hole.

"Wha-what are you do-doing?" Clint asked, confused by the turn of events and the sudden rush of pleasure that ran through his body, making his toes curl. Phil didn't answer, simply continuing to rim Clint, licking around and pushing into Clint with ease.

Clint whimpered at how good it felt, and thought it didn't make sense. Why wasn't it hurting? It should be hurting.

It didn't hurt at all as Phil ate him out, keeping him loose and wet and sending sparks of electricity into Clint. Clint tried to blink away the hazy warm feeling, but it stayed every time Phil sucked gently on Clint.

"Please, no, that's not, wait, I-, please," Clint didn't know how to voice his thoughts, but Phil took the hint and pulled back. He was grinning, though, as if he'd just experienced something wonderful, and Clint didn't understand it.

He was surprised again when he felt something cool and wet slip into him. Clint gasped out loud at the push of Phil's lubed fingers, but it still didn't hurt. It didn't hurt as Phil carefully stretched Clint. It didn't hurt as Phil slowly pumped his fingers in and out.

It certainly didn't hurt when Clint cried out at the sudden flash of pleasure when Phil crooked his fingers and found his prostate.

And it didn't hurt when Phil removed his fingers and replaced it with the head of his cock.

Phil, still smiling his warm, caring smile, bent over so he was inches away from Clint's face, and said, "Keep looking at me, Clint," as he pushed in slowly into Clint.

Clint's eyes widened in shock, but he kept his eyes on Phil, doing what he was told. Phil bottomed out and sighed before closing the small distance, pressing his lips against Clint's.

"I love you, Clint." He said against his lips.

Clint blinked and tried to protest, "No, wait, no, this isn't how it's supposed to…please, wait, no, I can't-,"

"I love you." Phil pulled back, always so gentle.

Clint whimpered his disagreement.

"I love you." Phil pushed back in, purposely angling to hit Clint's prostate, making Clint cry out wordlessly.

"I love you." Phil punctuated each declaration as he thrust in and out, hands coming up to frame Clint's face and bending down to kiss him each time.

"I love you."

"I love you."

" _I love you._ "

Clint trembled and gasped as his orgasm hit him by surprise. Phil only smiled and reached a hand down to stroke him and prolong his orgasm, milking him until just before Clint thought it'd be too much.

Clint was still shaking when he realized that he was the last one that had spoken.

Clint blinked his eyes open, and when had he closed them? His head was buried into Phil's shoulder and he noticed that he was holding onto Phil, hands gripping Phil's back tightly.

Phil was speaking lowly, giving him praises and adorations, and Clint felt that Phil was still hard, but no longer inside of him; they were both lying on their sides with Phil's arms wrapped around Clint, and Clint hanging on like a limpet.

"I love you. I love you, Phil." Clint's voice was muffled against Phil's shoulder, but Phil just held him closer and replied, "I love you too. I love you so much, Clint."

"You didn't come." Clint pointed out, but Phil just shushed him and Clint understood.

"Thank you. For ever'thing." Clint mumbled. Phil just laughed lightly and kissed his head.

"I'm just happy you're back with me." Clint wanted to feel guilty, but he didn't have room for it anymore. All that was left was Phil. Phil and his undying love and humanity and kindness. Clint let himself absorb it all, now that he could. He basked in the positivity that he found tucked into Phil's arms.

Clint enjoyed the calmness and serenity of the moment, and he closed his eyes, knowing he'd finally be able to rest. He was drifting when he heard Phil say, "You know tomorrow's going to be an easy day. They're going to want to make sure you're okay."

Clint's smile felt new on his face as he snuggled closer to Phil. "I know. We can do movies and takeout."

"Sounds like a plan." Phil replied thoughtfully.

Clint let himself drift again, knowing that Phil would take care of everything, just like he took care of Clint.


	7. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

As a rule, the day after was always a calm, easy day. It always consisted of lots of touching and watching, reminders that everyone was there, alive, and okay.

At first, Clint had complained, saying that he didn't need all the attention and comfort, but after seeing the immense guilt eat at the others, Clint had kept quiet and allowed them to pamper and love on him. Their happy and relieved faces was a price that Clint happily paid, and to be honest, he liked getting spoiled like this.

He loved the dog pile that all the Avengers made, with Phil, Steve and Natasha on the couch, and Clint sprawled across them all; Clint's head was in Phil's lap, and his feet in Natasha's, who gave him amazing foot rubs. Steve always had a hand on Clint's back, and would occasionally massage him wherever Clint was feeling particularly sore.

Thor sat in between Natasha's legs and somehow always managed to keep a hand on Clint's calf, sometimes massaging him there or switching foot-rub duties with Natasha. Bruce sat in between Phil and Steve's legs and held onto Clint's hand that draped over his shoulder. Bruce needed to glance at Clint every now and again to remind himself that he was still there, even if he laced his fingers with Clint's. Tony could never sit still, always flitting from one side of the couch to the other, alternating between sitting on the arms and the back of the sofa; it wasn't until one point where he accidentally slipped in between Phil and the side of the couch that both Phil and Clint reached a hand out to him in a silent plea to stay there. Phil even scooted over slightly to make room for him, and Clint arched his neck when Tony started petting his head. It didn't take long for Tony to finally settle and absently run his fingers through Clint's hair.

All of them always snuck glances at Clint, needing that reassurance, and for once, Clint never felt bothered by feeling all their gazes on him. They always made a point to love on and openly care about Clint, be it from food, to conversation, to touches, to simply being a presence to be counted on. They strived to mark the difference of their treatment of him, and even though Clint always knew, it was still nice to have them all so close to him.

They laughed, chatted or stayed quiet throughout the day, watching whatever movies they playfully argued over, and eating all the popcorn and candy that always seemed to magically appear even if no one ever really left their places.

Clint was grateful to them, for not only indulging him, but for still loving him after it was done. He knew that they were grateful to him for letting them vent in ways that they'd never be able to do otherwise. He knew they weren't typical, but then again, neither was he.

They worked well together, this little band of misfits. And that was all Clint cared about. They were his family, and they were all his. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading this fic! I hope you enjoyed it :) And thank you for everyone who commented and kudoed,- that always makes me happy :D
> 
> I'm still looking for a beta, so if you're interested, let me know! :)
> 
> (EDIT: it was pointed out to me that I had forgotten about Tony, so I added him in. Sorry!)


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